Man In The Middle Part 32

"Is it? I'll have you shot. Is that that silly?" silly?"

When I did not raise my hands, he looked over his shoulder and said to his two Marines, "Search and cuff this a.s.shole. If he resists, use force."

Before either Marine could move, I said to Lieutenant Berry, "Now would be a good time for you to slap your heels together."

"You . . . huh?"

"Heels. The little stumps at the back end of your feet. a.s.sume the position of attention."

"I know what the h.e.l.l heels are."

"Well, sometimes with Marines, you have to explain these things." I overheard one of his bodyguards chuckle, even as he stepped closer with his M16 pointed at my face. I directed the beam from the flashlight to my own left collar and said to Berry--and indirectly to his bodyguards--"Order that Jarhead to back off before I place you all under arrest for a.s.saulting a superior officer."

I could see the confidence drain out of his face as he stared for a moment at the black leaf of a lieutenant colonel. He seemed unsettled and uncertain what to do next, then like the little martinet he obviously was, he fell back on military instinct, drew himself to attention, and popped off a smart salute.

I did not salute back. "Lieutenant, you have insulted and threatened the life of a senior officer." I turned to Eric. "You witnessed this, did you not?"

"Sure did. He cussed at you. Called you a bad name, too. He even threatened to kill you."

I observed, "Yes, a real snot. Any decent prosecutor will get him at least ten to fifteen in Leavenworth."

"Sir, I didn't know who you were . . . I didn't recognize--"

"I recognized you. We were a mere two feet apart. I see no reason why you couldn't recognize me." I allowed him the necessary few seconds to consider what an unreasonable p.r.i.c.k I am, then concluded, "No, I'm afraid that doesn't excuse your behavior."

"Would a Marine apology do, sir?"

"Not even close."

"Well . . . I--"

"Lieutenant, how familiar are you with Article 834?"

He looked at me, then at Eric.

I explained, "To wit, interfering with, blocking, and/or jeopardizing the progress of a vital military operation. Just below treason in the Uniform Code of Military Justice and punishable up to life."

"But sir . . . I didn't know--"

"Ignorance is no excuse, Lieutenant."

"No, sir."

"The proper response is yes, sir."

"Uh . . . yes, sir. What I . . . well, what I meant--"

"If you'd be so kind, you'll speak when I tell you to." After a moment, I asked, "Do you have a radio?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where?"

"In the command vehicle, sir."

Now his voice was audibly quaking. Clearly, Lieutenant Berry was realizing that there are life-threatening dangers on the battlefield other than bullets. I said, "Call your unit. You will tell them that three civilian automobiles will be pa.s.sing through. They will not be stopped, questioned, or in any way hara.s.sed." After I beat, I added, "I want each car saluted as they pa.s.s through."

"But, sir, I don't even know who you are."

"Son," I replied, using that awful expression, "I'm the guy who can ruin your life. Two seconds. Decide."

Lieutenant Berry used up his two seconds, then raced to his vehicle to radio his Marines while Eric and I walked back to the car and got inside. Eric slammed it into gear, and we quickly drove through the unit, where, I noted, the Marines were holding their weapons at the position of a military salute.

Eric chuckled and said to me, "And I thought he he was an a.s.shole." was an a.s.shole."

"He's a bedwetting wimp."

"Are you really a lawyer?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Article 834? There is no no friggin' Article 834." friggin' Article 834."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm . . . Oh . . ." We both laughed.

After a few minutes, Bian urged Eric, "Hurry. The prisoner's breathing is getting shallow."

Just at that instant, to our rear, was a series of loud explosions, and the night sky lit up like a lightning storm sent by a very angry G.o.d, a G.o.d without pity, though this was just the opening omen, a foretaste of what was coming.

I turned around and peered through the rear window. Falluja had just entered the opening stage of the Marine Corps urban renewal project. Sometimes, as idiotic as it sounds, the old adage is tragically true: You have to destroy the village to save it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The remainder of the drive to the airport took forty minutes, during which bin Pacha lapsed into unconsciousness and his breathing turned unsteady. We pa.s.sed through only one more checkpoint at the entrance to the airport, manned by a squad of anxious-looking civilian contractors, who allowed us through without a hitch.

Bian then guided Eric to a covered hangar, inside of which was a large, gleaming Boeing Business Jet. The ramp was down and the door was open, so presumably somebody was inside. I walked up the stairs and stepped inside to begin my search for the doctor. The interior of the aircraft was hot and stuffy, and the crew seemed to be off on crew rest, because they weren't present.

To the right, I entered what appeared to be a large lounge area with walls of burled wood, lush blue carpet, a large video screen, a gla.s.s conference table, and a combination of lounge and office chairs, with an oversize plush circular sofa. I continued to work my way to the rear and next entered a dining room that was equally extravagant with a long mahogany table, coordinated mahogany chairs, and an impressive chandelier that looked like crystal but was actually plastic. Then there was a private office, a sort of cubicle with a large desk loaded with all the electronic marvels and goodies.

I could not imagine why the Agency needed this flying Queen Mary Queen Mary, much less how it convinced Congress to foot the bill. Well, I guess I had an idea: a sotto voce arrangement with certain members of the Intelligence Oversight Subcommittee who might need to borrow this aircraft for long overseas trips, in the interest of national security, of course.

Anyway, the plane seemed empty, and there were only two doors I hadn't yet opened, both at the rear of the aircraft.

So I opened the first one on the right and stepped into what appeared to be the master suite, a gaudy cage with rococo wallpaper, a mirrored wall, and a small bar, which I absently and unhappily noted was unstocked. Also, on the queen-size bed I saw a gentleman asleep in his underwear. I gave his leg a shake.

He opened his eyes and looked at me, blinking.

He looked fairly intelligent: thick gla.s.ses, thoughtful eyes, and all that. I asked, "Are you the doc in the house?"

"It's a plane."

That gift for pedantry nailed it. "And yes . . ." he confirmed as he rubbed his eyes and stuck out a hand. "Bob Enzenauer."

"What kind of doc are you?"

"Well . . . what kind of patient do you have?"

"A gut-shot one."

"Always bad." He sat up. "Allow me a moment. I'll be right out."

I left him and returned through the maze of aeronautic lushness to the hangar.

Bin Pacha now lay prostrate on the cement, and Eric and Bian hovered over him. Also, the silver sedan had arrived and Nervous Nellie was seated on the cement, looking more miserable and emotionally conflicted than ever with Eric's big gun aimed at his head.

Bian had knelt down and was taking bin Pacha's pulse. From Madame de Sade to Ma Barker to Florence Nightingale--this lady changed roles faster than I change underwear.

She looked up at me and said in a concerned tone, "His pulse has dropped. This isn't good. There has to be internal bleeding."

Eric looked at her, then at me, and said, "Sounds like we better conclude this deal quickly."

"The requirement was alive." I handed him the two M16s, and I noted two laptop computers and my legal briefcase and duffel bag piled neatly on the floor beside bin Pacha.

He glanced down at bin Pacha. "This is the very definition of close enough for government work. Works for me. How about you?"

Considering the ugly alternative--a perfectly healthy bin Pacha and a wall in Falluja decorated with my brains--I didn't want to sound ungrateful to the man who saved my life. "Deal." I looked at him and said, "Please pa.s.s my compliments to your people."

"I will."

"You do remarkable work." And I meant it.

He stuck out his hand, and we shook. I told him, "I'm doubling your pay."

"You can do that?"

Phyllis was going to go nuts. "I just did."

He smiled and patted my arm.

I mentioned, "About Phyllis, incidentally . . . are you aware she has an unlimited budget?"

"No . . . I--"

"Black money. Totally unaccountable. She can spend like a drunken sailor."

"For real?"

"I only mention this, because . . . well, before I arrived she was telling me . . . bragging, actually . . . all the other contractors get twice what she pays you."

"You're serious?"

"FYI. For next time."

For a moment we stared at each other. He looked like he wanted to say something. Finally I said, "Eric, as soon as you have enough, go home."

"Good advice." He turned around, and he and his people climbed into their cars and departed.

Doc Enzenauer now was hunched over bin Pacha, pinning an IV into his arm. He looked up at me and said, "What about that other man?" He pointed at Nervous Nellie.

"Just knee-shot." I pointed at bin Pacha. "He's your priority. Don't let him die. Do whatever it takes."

He gave me the Look.

I asked, "Am I overstating the obvious?"

"There's a folding bed in the crew's lounge. First door on the right. If you want to be helpful, get it."

Bian accompanied me, and as soon as we were inside the aircraft she pulled my arm and spun me around. She said, "We need to speak."

"Not now."

"You haven't said a word to me since the factory."

"Not true. I told you to shut up. That's a standing order until I rescind it." I looked her in the eye. "Right now, I'm not in the mood."

She was, though, and asked, "Aren't you going to ask me why?"

"You shot unarmed prisoners. Why would I ask or even care why? In fact, anything you say at this point can and probably will be used against you in a court of law."

"I deserve better than that from you."

"Do you?"

"I want you to know why why. This is important to me, Sean. The truth--are you willing to listen?"

When I did not reply she said, "We were down to two minutes. I knew bin Pacha was missing his left leg, and I a.s.sumed he wore a prosthetic. You remember that from the message, don't you? So I . . . I shot them each in the left leg. It worked, didn't it?"

I had already figured that out. "Did it never strike you that all you had to do was lift up their pant legs?"